


Ain't No Sunshine

by MissMaxime



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, and one sided, if you're here for the rio/turner it's very mild, in this fic only room for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaxime/pseuds/MissMaxime
Summary: He sets his glass onto the side table and waits for her. “Don’t kiss me,” she says, shrugging the dress off her shoulders.“Noted,” he answers, letting his eyes travel along her pale curves.--Set in between the two months after 2x13 and the end of 3x01. Turner and Beth spiral into a mutual unbeneficial relationship until one of them meets their inevitable end, and the other is cut loose to fall into another arms of the next nightmare.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Jim Turner, Beth Boland/Rio, Jim Turner/Rio
Comments: 33
Kudos: 55





	Ain't No Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no excuse for this other than I had to get my angst on before I dive back into the ISYTT fairytale, because this damn idea wouldn't let me go. As warned there's some very unhealthy things going on, but in between there's still banter and real talk.

He’s not completely sure what makes her contact him in the first place. After what went down at Mendoza’s apartment, he had only seen her once – shortly after, in her kitchen, baking up something to fit her innocent momma image. Whipping up something sweet and perfectly balanced and immaculately looking; all the mirror of what she was back in that apartment. A trembling mess with a shaky grip around that golden gun, her finger almost slipping from the trigger when she shot the first time. Followed by two more, sounds as sharp as the corners of the smile she flashed him in that moment.  
  
Not surprisingly, she’s already there when he enters the dive bar, hunched over her glass in a dark corner. There is nothing lemony aprons or pink shirts about her tonight, she stares into her drink and draws a path along the rim of her glass with a finger. Her face yellowy under the dark and sickly light of the dusty overhead neon. His own face doesn’t need bad lighting to stand out, the right side still an ugly red and purple watercolor from when the handle of the gun knocked him out. It’s fading slowly, but the circle under his eye is dark, more of a hollow shadow, making his eye appear more sunken than it is.  
  
“Thought you left town?”  
  
She flashes him a tired smile. Her jeans make a screechy sound as she skootches over on the plastic leather of the booth. Most sound in this bar is drowned by the 80’s rock blasting through the old speakers though. In another corner there’s a group of friends playing darts, laughing loudly. Occasionally there’s coins dropping into the hands of the drunk sitting behind the slot machine next to the bar.  
  
It’s her putting down her glass with a thud that makes him redirect his attention. As if on cue the bartender is at their table to refill her. “Leave the bottle,” she says, as he takes a seat next to her. “Bring another glass,” she adds, cocking her head at him like he’s in some buddy cop movie, and she’s his annoying partner.  
  
“What do you want, Mrs. Boland?” he sighs, discarding himself of his woolen jacket. A glass is carelessly put down in front of him, as well as the bottle.  
  
She reaches over to grab the bottle and pours him something that can’t even count as a double anymore. “We’re drinking, you should call me Beth,” she chirps, waving her index finger at him with the hand that’s also holding her glass. “You know what’s funny?”  
  
He doesn’t really want to ask.  
  
“I saved you,” she snorts, obviously more into the joke of how hilarious that is. “We’re celebrating.”  
  
He shakes his head, low laugh in the back of his throat. If only she knew how much of a cat with nine lives her gangbanger is.  
  
“This is how you fill your time now?” he asks, corking a brow. “Drinking in shady bars?”  
  
Beth shrugs. “Usually it’s just the drinking. The bar is extra.”  
  
She casts her eyes down, he guesses when she shot him down, she also lost grip of pretending that she doesn’t care. She fooled him once with that masquerade, but that was a long time ago. Even before, he could poke holes in that shell much easier than she probably anticipated. Only before it was rage, or annoyance, or fear lingering under the surface – it’s something else tonight she’s desperately trying to hide. Her gaze is focused on swirling her drink around in the glass, but he can’t unsee that fatigue hiding under her worn out make-up of the day. Her nails may have a manicure, but he sees angry red skin frame the edges. It’s almost swallowed by the noise around them, but he hears her suck in a shaky breath.   
  
“How do you deal with it?”  
  
Ah. Of course.  
  
“Get some counselling.”  
  
She smiles wryly before taking a big gulp of her drink. “I’m sure my employer has got that _all_ covered. Housewife union and such.”  
  
He’s not taking pity on her, he’s not. Her role in this whole criminal enterprise still isn’t completely clear to him. There are things he knows. How she robbed Fine & Frugal, how that ties her in with Mendoza and his money. How that somehow got them into some tryst. How he knows she stole a car from her husband’s dealership, the license plate being registered at the Canadian border. Whatever they took wasn’t flagged at suspicious, so he will guess he will never know what she smuggled in or out of the country.  
  
How she framed Mendoza for the money laundering with the second robbery, leaving her DNA on that pen cap – another thing he will never have a chance to prove. Regardless of how flimsy that evidence would have been, it wouldn’t hold up in court, but he maybe could have scared her into a confession. Her husband getting shot – not in the slightest bleeding enough on the spot where the ambulance was called to, on a street a block from their house.  
  
Counterfeit money. Boland Motors. Leslie’s presumed death. Damn, was he close to busting her then. If only that weasel hadn’t grown some sense of moral, they wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have ended up where they did a few weeks ago.  
  
And there’s enough opportunity to lie here. To tell her that it gets better. But he knows, ever since his first kill in Iraq all those years ago, that it doesn’t get better. Instead of your skin getting thicker with every shot fired, your skin gets thinner until it’s nothing but papyrus, tearing at the smallest implication. He knows that too.  
  
“You’ll never get over it.”  
  
She tilts her head, really looking at him now, like she does understand. “But will I feel,” she breaks off her sentence, struggling. “Feel anything?” she asks, her throat squeezing shut on its own by the heightened pitch.  
  
“You did good.” It’s not an answer. And he even doubts it will make her feel better.  
  
“Does that matter?” she says, downing her drink and immediately going for a refill.  
  
He supposes it doesn’t. Also knows drinking yourself into oblivious doesn’t exactly help the process as well. But then again, who’s he to judge? Can barely recall the endless string of booze and drugs and men and women he chased after a kill – however justified – to just retrieve a spark of feeling normal again.  
  
It’s the first time they fuck.  
  
In the shadows against the side of her car, her hands grappling for purchase against the slick iron above the window. Before one of those finds its way to her mouth, where she bites down on the mouse of her hand to muffle her cries. They don’t talk, and she disgruntledly swots his hand away when he tries to brush her hair from her neck. Doesn’t tell him why, but he takes the hint – letting his hand travel down instead. Along the still buttoned dark blouse she’s wearing – only the barest amount of clothes removed.  
  
He’s wondering what she’s trying to recreate. If she is. If she’s going through grief – for him, for herself, for whatever they were. It’s annoying, but he never really figured it out. And with Mendoza still passed out from painkillers, a lung that needs constant monitoring and the fact that he could still choke to death on his own fluids. Maybe she’s not really that bad of a bet to put some money on. For now.  
  
Her breathing starts coming more irregularly and he moves his hand from her belly to in between her legs, flicking her nub until she comes crashing down – drowning her moans against her hand. He puts both hands against the car and comes a few thrusts later, panting a few times against her hair before pulling out.  
  
“Thank you,” she says ridiculously curtly as she turns around between his arms, facing him. She wiggles into her jeans again and fastens the zipper and the button.  
  
“Mrs. Boland,” he says – before she cuts his sentence off with an angry look. He makes quick work of getting rid of the condom and buttoning his pants up.  
  
She straightens his tie in a mock show of endearment, before pulling it way too tight – her face scrunching up in annoyance. “Stop calling me that.”  
  
“What do you want me to call you?”  
  
She opens the door before retrieving her bag from the roof of the car and tossing it on the passenger seat. “I’ll let you know,” she says, then gets in and drives off.  
  


+++

Mendoza’s in the clear now, moved to a hotel room only he and two trusted colleagues have access to. He’s still immobile, and that will probably take at least a week or two. But the worst part is that he isn’t talking. Not about the things he’s been keeping him alive for, anyway. Demanding a phone to talk to his son. Demanding a doctor to walk him through rehabilitation. It’s almost funny, but he can demand all he wants but he’s not going to get anything until he gives up some info that displays something to repair his complete distrust of him. Something that will get some results.

He's on his couch in the dimly lit apartment, sipping some brandless Cabernet thinking over the call he had with Douglas. Promising him that this won’t take long anymore, maybe a month, two at most before he can leave it all behind and join him in Baltimore. Douglas told him about a guy he’s been seeing on and off, but he doesn’t tell him about her. Not that there’s something to tell.

It’s the doorbell ringing that tears him from his thoughts.

Of course it’s her.

“Just call me Beth,” she says, brushing past him into the apartment.

“How did you find me?” he’s not actually surprised, but he’ll humor her.

There’s a part of him that’s instantly annoyed by how she invades the room. Letting her purse drop onto the counter. Dropping her coat onto one of the dining room chairs. Pulling open cabinets and smiling to herself when she finds the wine glasses behind door number two. Checking the glass in the light for stains and splotches – she nodoubtly hand polishes hers herself. Apparently he passed the test because she walks to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine, pouring herself a generous one.

“Like what you’ve done with the place.”

And he can’t help it, but he does laugh. Maybe more of a scoff, but he’s still a little amused. She mirrors his smile with her own cheeky one, before taking a sip, leaning against his counter.

It’s another version of her today. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something accomplished or proud plastered all over the sad mess she’s hiding.

“Your face looks better,” she says, waving her hand around in a circle, indicating the bruise he suffered.

“Rihanna has a great concealer line,” he replies. It makes her laugh – it’s hollow though.

She downs half the glass before pushing herself from the counter, taking the bottle with her. “I followed you,” she says offhandedly, while sauntering over to him. “But I suppose you already know that.”

“You’re not very subtle,” he answers, holding her gaze. And, she really wasn’t. Used her own car, keeping either too little or too much distance. He even parked to let her catch up, kind of felt sorry for her even though they were already close to the muffler factory he told her the temporary housing was close to.

She grimaces. “I’ve been told,” she says. He doesn’t ask why and who. Can already guess it even though he has not a clue about the context.

“Why are you here, Beth?’ he asks, He doesn’t wait for her answer, turns away and takes his place on the couch, leaving her behind him in the kitchen. Hears her shuffle around while he refills his glass. Takes in a few seconds of the muted down news broadcast he wasn’t even watching when she entered his place.

Behind him he hears her pick up her purse – whatever she’s carrying in that, it makes noise – before making her way to him and falling down onto the couch beside him. “When does it get,” she stops, contemplating her words while she looks away. “When does it get less bad?” she asks, taking a large gulp again.

Mendoza had asked him about her. Not so to the point. But he asked what happened ‘after’. Something he didn’t answer him, quid pro quo, my man. But it wasn’t just some inquiry. He could see he wanted to know how she was doing. What was going on.

“Not now,” he answers honestly.

“But when?” the ‘but’ still in a shriek, yet the ‘when’ drowned in a more calming note.

There’s really no need to lie here. “Not three weeks.”

“Three months? Three years? When?” she asks in rapid fire. _‘When can I start my life again?’_ he hears in the undercurrent, and it’s near to heartbreaking, but he can’t really say anything else but:

“This is your life now.”

It’s not something she can make peace with. Not now at least. Sees the turmoil in her eyes while she stares at the muted weather lady on the screen. It’ll probably take her more than three months, maybe even more than three years. Assuming she’ll never see him again. Maybe the man will even grant her release by his own hands if he decides to release him from his luxury prison one day.

“How do you live like that.”

It’s not a question. Not one directed to him at least. But he feels compelled to answer anyway. “You just do,” he sighs, a sigh that comes from deeper within than he initially intended on.

“I want to try something,” she says, rummaging through whatever’s in her purse. She extracts some kind of black sleeping mask. “It’s for me,” she explains. He should feign surprise that he would comply with whatever sexual scenario she cooked up, should question it, should refuse probably.

But she starts unbuttoning the – even for her – dowdy mom dress she’s wearing. It’s not sexy, it’s almost demure or neutral the way she peals it off. He’s cleaned guns or mopped floors with more passion than the way she’s doing this. But he supposes that’s not what this is about.

He sets his glass onto the side table and waits for her. “Don’t kiss me,” she says, shrugging the dress off her shoulders.

“Noted,” he answers, letting his eyes travel along her pale curves. 

She sucks in a deep breath before putting the mask into place. She lets her hand travel along the backrest of the couch before reaching his shoulder, locating where he is. Her movements are close to shy, the way she lightly touches him before mapping him out and settling in his lap. And it's not really that different from the first time aside from the scenery.

Her small hands fall onto his thighs, before travelling up and they find the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down far enough to release his cock.

“I’m not fucking you raw,” he says.

The corners of her mouth curl upwards. “Noted.”

She makes quick work stripping him of his shirt. Can’t help but notice the longer lingering she does with her fingers on the upper left side of his body, finding nothing. “I’ve got condoms in my purse,” she says, and he yanks it towards him, searching onehandedly while he drags his other hand from her neck down her body, leaving a pink flush in its wake.

It’s almost clinically. The way he takes the condom, discards it from its packaging, and rolls it down his shaft. He’s hard for her, but he’s not sure why. Knows she’s using him for, if it’s something beyond just feeling _something_ \- he has no idea what it is. Maybe that’s what Mendoza was all over too. That he was searching for something with her, inside her, something to do with baring the real her within all the Russian dolls she buried herself in.

Beth’s hand on his cock draws him back into the moment. And he reaches out to draw her panties aside. She rides against him, wetting herself and him with her own moisture. He can’t see her eyes, but he can see her pout. Can see that flush appearing on her cheeks, getting darker on her chest, her neck. Also knows it’s not him she really wants.

She’ll just have to take the next available thing.

He drops both of his hands to her hips. Not drawing her onto him, but making an encouraging gesture. It’s enough for her because she moves into him, lining herself up before sinking down halfway onto him in one go. He soundly opens his mouth and sees her do the same.

She secures her small hands onto his. He takes the cue and pulls her onto him, pulling out an animalistic sound from the back of her throat as she fully takes him in. It takes her a few seconds to adjust, but she drops her mouth to his neck, doing nothing more than just wetting it with her mouth as she starts to move in his lap.

“This how he fucked you?” he can’t help but ask, grasping her hips harder. “He hit you this deep?”

She winces, moving with the pace he sets with his hands. She fumbles with her arms, placing her hand on the backrest behind him. “Don’t talk about him,” she says, sternly, definitive. It confirms to him all he needs to know. Maybe even more than she lets herself know. He never second guessed she needed to forget about him, that was clear from the get-go, but it runs deeper, to a depth unknown for him and most likely one that either of them will ever let onto. It’s probably why Mendoza even asked how she was doing.

“How’s Douglas?” she asks more polite than this situation deserves. But fair enough, he just got that boomerang right back in his face.

“Shut up,” he croaks back, pulling her onto him harshly, making her choke on a moan. 

She grinds into his lap, taking all of him. But he sees that cheeky grin appear upon her face under that mask. And he thinks he’s finally getting a glimpse of why this woman has been in Mendoza’s orbit for almost the past two years - other than for the obvious. It doesn’t last long though, barely a beep, before her lips settle back into a stern line of concentration.

He grabs her both her ass cheeks with his hands, slowing down her pace. Much to her chagrin, judging by her frown. “Your husband not good enough,” he says airy.

She lets him determine the pace, maybe unwilling to answer him, maybe just fine with how he is now orchestrating this thing. But after a minute or so she starts getting impatient, grinding into him harder, more roughly. More chasing for something. She grabs one of his hands and puts it on one of her tits, that are now both jiggling deliciously in his face.

Her plumb lips fall open when she reaches her pique, and it takes a lot of him not to suck the bottom one in between him lips while he comes into her, fucking her in rapid, irregular thrusts.

Her hands are still on the backrest, but she’s hunched over, her mouth close to his while they take in each other’s breaths. After her breathing evens out she entangles from him, falling back onto the couch next to him, while she rearranges her ruined underwear back in place.

“I don’t see your boyfriend here,” she says, taking off the blindfold, revealing a smug yet questioning look in her eyes.

And, yeah. She’s not wrong.

+++

Finally, Mendoza starts spilling info to him. The bureau has busted two medium operations because of his info. He won’t tell the bureau his source, they have no idea Mendoza is the one blowing the whistle. And if he hadn’t started these successful raids he’d probably have to answer to why he lost track of Mendoza at all – why he can’t answer to his whereabouts – how none of their moles is able to contact him. Fortunately, the problems equal each other out, and nobody has even mentioned his name in over a week. These things only matter once you start failing.

He still won’t provide Mendoza with the phone he’s been asking for, for a little over a month now. And even though he’s been walking around as a reasonably functional human being and being the utmost cranky about it – both about the phone and the trouble he has shoveling about. He’s being compliant. Being a good prisoner. Neither of them is making any mistake on that regardless of his confinement not having iron bars and the fact that he brings him model airplane figurines to keep his mind alert.

“You seen her?” Mendoza drawls, looking out of the window into the night. He’s clutching a half-empty vodka bottle one of the other agents brought over that afternoon. It’s late, the only noises resonating around the room are the cars driving by and their honks on the busy city road below them.

He breaks the silence by slurping a spicy noodle string into his mouth from the take-out box. Mendoza, Rio, he hasn’t really mentioned her after his delirious fits during his critical phase two weeks ago or so. Been asking about his son above or else, maybe mentioning his mom or his sisters sometimes.

“Seen her once,” he admits, referring to that one time he visited her at her house while she was baking cookies or something. When he told her to stay good.

Rio chuckles, taking another swig straight from the bottle. “Bet she back to being housewife and shit. Wait her out. She’ll crack.” It’s almost like he amuses himself more than he’s trying to entertain him.

If only he knew how much she’s already tearing at her seams.

“Maybe give me something to bust her on,” he drops, continuing his meal.

Rio drops back against the couch, taking another deep intake of his liquor, continuing to stare out the window. He’s bare-chested, still with an abundance of bandaging stretching across his arm and his chest. A few drops of vodka dribble from his lip down into the dip of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He turns his head slowly, raking his gaze over his patched-up chest.

“Murder?” he smiles too brightly.

No way, José, too many flashbacks of him escorting her down the corridor of the station. Finally having her in cuffs, ready to put her in a holding cell. Only to run into the very much alive evidence that she couldn’t have possibly committed the crime she just admitted to over her plates of cinnamon buns. “Nah, ain’t going down that road again.”

Rio just laughs and shakes his head.

He's got nothing to lose here.

“So, what’s it about? This some fucked up Romeo and Juliet shit?”

Rio never looks back at him. Just drinks some more, maybe in a dire attempt to ignore him.

He lets out a loud chuckle, then belts out into laughter. “You almost got murdered because of a love affair,” he follows up, digging his chopsticks into his noodle box. “What a joke.”

Rio, eyes glazing over with fury, gives him a death stare. “You calling me a joke?”

He's still feeling jolly. “Calling you a damn fool.” Rio is disgruntled. “You’ve been in this scene for what. Twenty, twenty-five years? And you get shot by some suburban mom? Amateur move,” he leaves it at that, expecting Rio to revolt.

He doesn’t. Just strokes his chin and keeps staring at him, emotion mellowing out behind his eyes. “You got a fellow, right?” Rio poses it as some question, but they both know that he knows what’s going on in his private life. Not just who his long-term boyfriend is, but also his sister, his dad in the nursing home, his aunt and uncle in Hawaii and his two cousins. Just as he knows about Rio’s older sister, his younger sister that his cousin and been living with them since she were a little more than a babe, his mother who’s still alive and living in a house in his old neighborhood.

“What’s your point?” he asks, indifferently.

When Rio stays silent, he supposes that was the point. I know about you, you know something about me, let’s leave it at that. He gets up, rummages through a plastic bag, and tosses a new model airplane at him. Rio catches it remarkably well from the air. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

+++

Beth comes to see him twice that week. The first time has to be quick; he’s got actual work to do that evening. Ends up bending her over his kitchen counter while he gives it hard and fast to her from behind. After she buttons up and leaves. He wonders how she feels using him like this, wonders if it is working at all. Or if she just wishes it would.

The second time she’s already waiting by his door, sitting on the floor with her back against the wood. She’s scrolling on her phone, distracted.

“No breaking and entering?” he asks as he nears her.

She snickers, looks up at him with those blue eyes. “Thought you wanted me to stop misbehaving?”

He slowly corks and eyebrow at her while he searches for his keys.

“Illegally,” she emphasizes.

He holds out his hand and she takes it so he can pull her to her feet. She’s biting her lip, as if she’s holding back something she desperately wants to ask. It’s enough for him to usher her in, he's not really sure who’s all residing in the building at the moment, but this is still corporate housing. Isn’t exactly ready for colleagues discovering he’s having a – a what? A friend with benefits? An over-intimate grief counselor session? – a whatever this is with a former murder suspect.

“Why is no one coming for me?” she asks, as she strips herself from her jacket. She’s wearing some ridiculous glittery sweater dress, maybe she came straight from a New Year’s kids dance recital or something. A flashy reminder of her goody-good lifestyle.

He eyes her attire, flushing her a little. “I’d run away from that too, to be honest.”

“I’m not kidding,” she bites back. It’s different, somehow they always do end up sharing a few jokes. Gallows humor mostly. Something corny or dumb to lighten the mood before they’re clouded by that darkness that’s always lingering around them.

“I don’t know.” He’ll probably wants to do it himself in a dramatized crazy poetic way, rewarding her with an eye for an eye from the boss man himself.

Beth pulls off the sweater dress, leaving her in a thin black camisole dress. “It’s not him who took me from my house, it was one of his boys. And don’t tell me I’m imagining that, I know him, it wasn’t him. Someone knows that there were only two other people in that apartment, and we’re both alive. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Guess you ain’t that special, huh?”

Something angry flashes across her eyes, and he sees her pushing her nails into the palm of her hand. But her skimpy dress doesn’t really leave to imagination that she’s clenching her thighs too. And that’s something new.

He keeps his dumb smile plastered on his face while he stalks towards her. “Yeah. That what you want?”

She doesn’t answer him, keeps staring at him defiantly as he draws up the hem of her dress, exposing her baby blue panties to him. He slides his other hand past her waistband, feeling instantly how wet she is. “Bet he made you feel very special,” he says, while sliding two fingers into her, fucking her lazily.

She whimpers and closes her eyes.

“No, _Beth_ ,” he says calmly, but venomously. Her eyes shooting open at the sound of her name. He walks her back against the living room wall. “No looking away. This is who you are,” he continues, pushing another finger into her.

It's clear she’s conflicted. Eyes her purse that has her damn mask in it. But she returns her glare back at him as he starts speeding up. “And what’s that?” she snaps angry now, like the way when she broke to pieces in her kitchen, when she told him she framed Mendoza. How she did _him_ a favor. It’s laughable how much she doesn’t really realize he owns her. Owns him. He’s the one pulling the strings here.

“Nobody,” he answers, circling her clit with his thumb.

Before she has time to respond he pulls his hand away from her, leaving her panting against the wall. “I like your standards,” she quips coyly.

He's annoyed, as if this says anything about him. She’s the sad case here. Desperate and needy, crawling back to him again and again.

She pushes herself from the wall and takes his hand that was just inside her by the wrist, lifting it to her mouth. She licks a long line over his middle finger before sucking it between her lips. He lets her, Watches, shudders involuntarily as she bites the tip of his finger. “This is what you want?” he asks, through hooded eyes. Can’t deny that her finally, _finally_ not ignoring him in this part of the game is something enticing. “Want me to see you?”

She nods, pulling his fingers from her mouth. Leaving him feeling ridiculously empty.

He grabs her ass with his other hand and squeezes hard, her sharp intake of breath makes him harder. He wants to see her – all of her. No more masks.

He drags her with him to his bedroom, they haven’t been here before, he never wanted her to be here – the only part of the apartment that slightly resembles a home. “Get rid of it,” he orders, eyeing her dress, while he undresses himself. She nods and complies, pulling the thin fabric over her head and throwing it aside, while he does the same to his pants and shirt. Stepping out of his underwear at the same time she does.

He doesn’t wait for her to discard her bra, just grabs her by her hips, turns her around and pushes her down onto his immaculately made white bedding. She attempts to get on all fours, but he straddles her thighs, while she’s still on her belly. He strokes himself while waiting for her to look at him through the mirror of the sliding doors of his wardrobe. When he doesn’t move, she does look at him, pupils blown wide.

“It won’t last,” he says, as if they haven’t done this before. The air thick between them while he sees her contemplate this. She nods, looking at him unguarded. Gives him permission to continue whatever he has planned.

He doesn’t waste any time, pushing into her wet, slick warmth immediately. Relishing in both their moment of mouths falling open and bodies relaxing and heating up at the same time. Eliciting something different, something that’s a new kind of exciting, something else after all the pain and confusion and denial.

She pushes back onto him, aggravated that he’s still. Expressing as much with her grumpy pout and how she’s wiggling beneath him. But he won’t let her lead this time. Pulling out of her completely before pushing fully into her again. She’s got her eyes closed again, and it’s the first time it actually insanely annoys him. So he plasters himself against her back, grabbing her chin with his large hand, making his presence undeniable.

“Does it feel good?” he murmurs into her ear, even though her body already tells him that, sucking him in with every thrust. “Does it feel better?" he asks, locking eyes with her into the mirror, while relentlessly driving into her from behind.

“You’ll never feel better,” _than him,_ she answers him in a moan, when he sucks her earlobe between his lips. He should be offended, but he’s not. Really. Not with the knowledge that that will always be a void inside her, something she won’t ever fill again. No matter how many playdates she’ll indulge with him, or with anyone.

She lets out a broken string of sobs when she comes, tearing the bedding from the corners. It only takes him a few more thrusts before he comes inside her with a low grunt, holding himself up on both arms, heaving.

“Thought you didn’t want to fuck me raw?” she asks after a few seconds, pushing a few damp strands of hair form her face.

And that’s… _shit._ Irritated he entangles from her and stalks into the bathroom. Scrubs himself longer and more thorough than necessary. Finds some calm and peace when he hears the front door open, and then close a little too loud. Thinks maybe they have seen enough of each other by now.

+++

Apparently, he’s not the only one thinking that, because she doesn’t come back. It’s fine, he’s been busy for days. Mendoza’s names and locations have proven to be extremely accurate – the FBI’s been making arrests and cleaning labs out more than they did the last year. Well, he did. It won’t take long now. One more the day after tomorrow – then he’s got to see what fate he’ll deem his snitch.

Speaking off, he grabs his laptop, opening the security camera stream from Rio’s hotel room. Showing the living room, with the coffee table cluttered with the new model plane, a military one, still in pieces. A few take-out boxes, not unlike the ones still out in his kitchen. The bedroom is neat, bed is made so tight he could bounce a nickel on it.

When he switches to the next camera, he sees him. Hand flat against the glass wall of the shower while he stokes himself with his other hand.

The feed has no audio, but he can imagine the sounds coming from him. Low grumbles and hitched breaths and an occasional wince when his shoulder suddenly carries too much pressure from his wiry frame. His own hand soon finds its way inside his pants, encircling his half-hard cock. Rio’s mouth hangs open a little, eyes closed while he speeds up his movements - when they both do.

He wonders if he’s thinking about Beth. Pressed wet and slippery against the shower wall, if she has her small and delicate hands wrapped around him. Wonders if they are kissing in his dream, if it is tender or rough. If he shows that he wants her as much as she clearly still wants him, or if he sets out to destroy her. Biting her lips ‘til they bleed while he cruelly pulls her hair.

He comes in his hand, the image of them in the shower stall still burned into his retina. When he looks at the screen, he swears he sees Rio flash him a smirk before continuing his shower.

+++

“ _’Thinking of you?’_ ” she hisses, brushing past him. He knew she would be back. “You can’t just show up at my job like that!”

After a quick peek into the hallway to check if it’s empty, he closes the door. She’s not busy discarding her coat or anything, nothing indicating this will be a long visit. It’s not like he had any doubt she’d be irritated by his pop-by, but she seems awfully frazzled. “Why? All the other card girls big on the gossip?” he smirks, pouring a drink. He holds it out for her, and after seeing her doubt she does reach out to take it from him.

He pulls it away just before she can grab a hold of it. “Why?”

Her face drops before smiling sweetly at him. “I’m trying to be a good girl, Agent Turner. Good girls don’t have the FBI dropping in on them at work.” She grabs the glass from him and takes a step back.

“Can’t be too careful,” he replies, putting the bottle back. “You, sweetheart, are a known gang associate.”

Beth rolls her eyes at that.

He laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend you? How do you like ‘murderer’?”

“What I like is for you to back off!” she snaps. “I can’t move on with you…” she chokes on the rights words. She puts down her glass and frantically gets rid of her coat, as if it were suffocating her. Her neck showing red splotches that dive down under the fabric of her blouse.

“With me what? Fucking your brains out?” he says calmly, leaning back against the fridge.

She refills her glass. “You were right, okay. It doesn’t help. Nothing does,” she sighs, leaning against the counter beside him.

“Told you.”

“At least you get to go out swinging some guns around.”

He eyes her suspiciously.

“I watch local news,” she chuckles, when she sees the look he’s giving her. “You’ve been making arrests all over Detroit. Sounds exciting.”

“The Force is always hiring,” he says playful. She smiles into her drink. “Maybe give me some early retirement.” That does sound better than it probably should. But on the other hand, _nah_. He does get she’s looking for something more exciting than mothering a bunch of kids, and crafting cards, and make carpool schedules for soccer.

“I have to go soon,” she says.

“How soon?”

He'd be surprised if it takes them more than thirty seconds; to haul her up onto the counter and strip her jeans off, while she unbuttons her pink blouse and pulls his shirt over his head. She strokes herself while he gets a condom from his wallet and wraps up. He drops his hand over hers between her legs, pressing in two of his own fingers along with hers, making her cry out against his neck.

“Too much?” he asks, nibbling on her shoulder.

She reaches down between them to grab his cock. “Not enough.”

He pulls their hands away from her cunt with a sound that instantly embarrasses her, judging by the flush appearing on her cheeks. She hooks a leg around him, pulling him flush against her.

He chuckles. She’s nothing like the women he fucked before. He gets why Mendoza’s into her so much, what drew them together like magnets in the first place. But while he first figured she was hiding layers under layers, he’s more leaning towards her being like an Escher painting. Every time you think you know where the path’s going you find yourself back at square one. He wraps one hand around her neck to draw her closer, curious where she’ll lead him today, and her breath hitches hotly.

She puts her hand on his, rubbing her thumb over his while she presses it down over her windpipe. His dick twitches at that move, against her, and she keens. “That what you want?” he croaks, looking into her eyes.

She presses her thumb down harder, moving her hips against him. She’s already impossibly wet, but it gets even better when he squeezes his hand around her neck even more. His other hand sneaks around her, before grabbing her ass and dragging her a little more towards the edge of the counter.

He revels in how impatient she is. He knows she doesn’t have a lot of time, but still, he wants to drag this out as much as possible. So, he latches onto her chin, leaving wet kisses he drags towards her neck, where he experiments with pressure. She starts to heave when he pushes his head into her, resulting in a glorious hitched moan.

“Yes,” she drags out, putting more pressure on his hand, even though he doesn’t comply with that immediately.

He squeezes her throat when he pushes into her completely, her groans drowned against his hand. Her hands flail, trying to get purchase on his shoulders. One of her hands pushing sharp nails into his back, making him jut into her sharply. It’s, this isn’t something he’s really into usually, wasn’t into at least. But he’s not _not_ into it. Likes how her face scrunches up when he pushes into her, when he enhances and relives the pressure on her neck. Likes the control.

Her bare heel presses into just above his butt, pushing him to more rapid action. Her tits push into his chest, and he bends down, didn’t take a chance before to really get to them, wets her bra when bites her nipple. It’s not right, but the way her choky croak resonates with him gets him harder. Gets him fucking her harder.

It’s amazing that her hand still feels so soft and sweet, the way she lets it linger on his own, that’s tight with tension. His other hand falls down between her legs, rubbing her clit, she closes her eyes, and he does too. And she’s just another warm body he gets his rocks off with like Doug does with that guy he told him about, she is. But he is aware enough that this is something more to her; be it escaping or grounding, or a combination of both.

She feels warmer, and wiggles against his thumb. Releasing hitched breaths against his lips, she came. And it takes him two more deep thrusts to come into the condom. They stay still against each other, breathing each other in before she leans back and starts closing her blouse, hiding the raw red marks on her collarbone and neck from his sight. He steps back, cleaning himself up and buttoning his pants. She slides from the counter, getting into her jeans and making herself decent again – as well as she can with those puffy lips and messy hair.

She strokes her neck, where he just touched her like she wanted to. He doesn’t make a show about it while he looks for his shirt and pulls it on again. She grabs her coat from the dining table and cocoons herself in it, hiding everything away like nothing happened, like she’s not who she is.

“Keeping it in makes it worse,” he says, unable to restrain himself.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by him how shakily she zips up her purse before swinging it on her shoulder again. Doesn’t miss the brief flash of hurt in her eyes before she composes herself, before she finds that well-crafted Stepford wife front again and stares back at him flatly, as if without a pulse.

“Don’t come to my work again,” she says sternly. But follows it up with that tiny, sad smile he’d come to know a little too well.

He takes a few seconds, but nods. “Alright.”

She takes off quickly, he doesn’t go to see if she’s seen by his neighbors.

+++

Mendoza fucked him over. Calling off the snipers with a bark, he can’t even begin to hide his rage. That idiot has lived up to expectations over the past two months, gotten him over six busts ‘til now. But this should have been the big close, the crown on his work before he could let the local force reel in the small fishes, and he could retire home to his man again. But this warehouse is empty, cleared of any activity assuming there had been some at all. Not even a paper trail to follow. There’s just nothing. He’s going to kill him.

When he takes off the bulletproof vest, he’d like to think it takes off a bit off the frustration, weighing him down less, but it doesn’t. It just allows even more resentment to expand through him, drumming harsh and angry under his skin. Can already hear the words of failure his captain will be pouring out over him when he gets back to the station.

He throws the vest into the back of the car, and yells a bit more at Gary who should have done the background check in the first place. Hears the man mumble something about successful stakeouts, and seeing familiar names stopping and entering the building, even last night. How he doesn’t understand what happened. It’s all useless. He’s about to verbally attack him again when he sees Gary’s expression change from boyish embarrassment to undeniable fear as he takes a few steps back on impulse.

When he turns around, he sees the black car driving into the lot. And he knows the 3 F’s: Flight, fight, or freeze. He’s guilty of one and two, but never had himself subject to three, freeze, always thought he was above that. He’s been through a lot, he never considered that would even be a possibility by now. But when he sees the van roll in, hears the door slide open over the deafening heartbeat beating in his chest, even sees the guns peek out before all hell breaks loose and people scramble around to hide in panic. Yet his body freezes as his mind starts racing, just regretting a lot of things. Regretting not visiting his father enough the past years while he’s stuck in that nursing home, because if he’s lucky, he tells him he's proud of him through his Alzheimer’s. Not seeing his sister and his cousins enough, because they really do grow up so fast.

But what he think most about is Douglas, Who _is_ the love of his life, they’ve been together for almost twelve years, and they know how they feel about each other, but when you’re together for so long, sometimes you lose expressing affection in the comfort of familiarity, and he’ll never again will get to tell him

**Author's Note:**

> Highly recommand watching the 3x02 scene where Beth and the girls visit the warehouse where Turner was shot. Real new vibes now. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr @MissMaxime.


End file.
